


Common Things

by ravenslight



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bed Sex, F/M, Flowers, Gardens & Gardening, Hurt/Comfort, Language of Flowers, Light Angst, Past Relationship(s), Reconciliation, Sharing a Bed, Smut, gardener!neville
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:47:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25083367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenslight/pseuds/ravenslight
Summary: Neville Longbottom escapes to Yorkshire after the war to find a peaceful respite in the countryside. However, he wasn't expecting to reconnect with someone from his past.
Relationships: Neville Longbottom/Pansy Parkinson
Comments: 17
Kudos: 144
Collections: LoveDump 2020





	Common Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NuclearNik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NuclearNik/gifts).



> Surprise! Oh dear, Nik, I wish I could wrap you in a gigantic hug and tell you just how much I love and appreciate your presence in fandom. You're such a wonderful soul, so kind and loving in all your interactions, and I'm incredibly grateful for your steady presence and friendship. I hope the following story shows you just a tiny bit of my love for you, and I hope it brings a smile to your face. I'm so proud to know you, and I hope you know that you'll always have people at your back who love you unconditionally. Cheers to you, my dear. <3 
> 
> Also, I'm sorry this is SO LONG. I got carried away lol 
> 
> Beautiful aesthetic made by Elle Morgan-Black. This fic has not been alpha or beta read. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

****

**Common Things  
** _for NuclearNik_

“Along the northern side of the garden wall, you’ll find a rather enthusiastic patch of lungwort. We’ve tried to drive it out to no avail.”

Neville nodded to himself as his host showed him through the grounds with a look of singular distaste for the brilliant foliage dotting the cottage. He cleared his throat, affecting a polite smile as his fingers itched to bury themselves in damp soil. “And I’ll run the lot of it, correct?”

Madam Marietta laughed, the movement crinkling the skin around her eyes into endearing wrinkles. “That you will, dear boy. See if you can make it presentable, and we’ll consider keeping you on.” 

He answered her with a wry smile of his own as they made their way towards the entrance gate. He stopped a few feet from the front door, resting his hand carefully atop his precariously piled luggage. “Consider it my pleasure, then.” 

The elder witch considered him for a moment, but he appeared to have whatever it was she was searching for, because she clapped once and turned for the gate. “It’s not much, but you’re welcome to it all the same so long as you keep the place tidy.”

Contented warmth shot through Neville at the woman’s gruff hospitality—she reminded him of his gran. “It’s perfect,” he called, cracking a smile when Madam Marietta threw a hand up in goodbye as she scuttled down the lane.

Carefully, he directed his luggage through the worn wooden door and up the stairs towards the bedroom Madam Marietta had mentioned as he collapsed in an old rattan rocker that groaned dangerously when he settled in it.

There would be time for exploration later. For now, he was content to recline before the window of the dilapidated home and watch the sun set over the Yorkshire hills. 

* * *

By the second week of his tenure in the cottage, he’d tamed the lungwort invasion and fostered the growth of a forgotten patch of sunflowers that had become choked and tangled in the opposite corner of the garden. 

Working in the garden was peaceful in a way Neville hadn’t fully experienced before. There had been brief respites of it at Hogwarts, but the calm that settled into Neville’s soul when he was elbow deep in soil, shirt soaked through with sweat, was all-consuming.

As it was, he was preparing a plot for a beautiful cornflower seedling when a pop of Apparition sounded down the lane, but he didn’t pop up from his task until the gate clanged shut and a shadow loomed over him.

“Neville, dear boy!” Madam Marietta crowed, a look of flabbergasted awe colouring her features as she peered around the garden. “I’m not certain this is even the same home.”

“Madam Marietta, it’s good to see you.” Neville’s greeting was genuine; apart from his regular trips into the market, he’d not had much human contact since his move to the countryside, and he found himself rather starved for conversation. “Alright?”

Waving away his soot-covered hands, Madam Marietta enveloped him in a bruising hug. “Just peachy, dear.” With a final squeeze, she released him. “Should have hired someone like you _years_ ago! I wrote this place off as a lost cause a long time ago.”

Neville rubbed a hand against the back of his neck sheepishly. “Just needed a delicate touch, I s’pose.” 

The woman eyed him critically. “Have you been out since you’ve arrived? Or are you holing yourself up in this cottage and hiding from the world.”

He could feel a flush race over his skin, and he briefly thanked Merlin for quickly-tanning skin that hid the majority of the colour. “I’m afraid I have. I get lost in the garden, and by the time I’ve realised the hour, the sun is setting and I'm ready for a night’s rest.”

“That won’t do, now will it?” Madam Marietta tutted, forcibly turning himself towards the house. “Go get yourself cleaned up.” 

“I—what?” he stuttered, trying halfheartedly to dig his heels into the ground. 

“You heard me,” she scolded, giving him a light push towards the creaky wooden steps. “Go wash up. The garden will be here in the morning, but you need to have some fun. There’s a pub in town, over on Thackery Street.”

“I’m not sure I—” Neville tried, raising his shoulders in self-deprecation. “I’m not good at socialising,” he finished lamely, cringing through the admission. 

“Oh, tosh,” she responded. “You get into that house, have a shower, and head on down to the pub. Maybe you’ll meet a mate or two. Or a pretty girl.”

Groaning to himself, Neville climbed the steps if only to please the woman. “And if I don’t?”

A mischievous smile lit Madam Marietta’s face. “Well, then there’s only one proper course of action: you’ll get well and truly pissed before you come on home.” 

Her wheezing laughter followed him into the home and down the hall as he shook his head to himself despite the grin tipping his lips. 

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Neville emerged from the shower cleaned and in good spirits despite the forced socialisation. He dressed in a pair of comfortable jeans, a button-up shirt—on which he rolled the sleeves to his elbows—and marched through the house towards the door.

Just as he was about to wave his wand to lock up, he spotted a pouch nestled near the front door and stooped to retrieve it.

On a piece of parchment he left near the door for a supplies list, Madam Marietta had scrolled a short note.

_Drinks are on me. Consider it a raise for a job well done._

Within the pouch were several shiny galleons, their tinkling a welcome surprise.

With a laugh and a silent salute towards Madam Marietta’s home down the lane, Neville began the—not so long—trek to the pub.

Though he could have easily Apparated into the town, he enjoyed the respite of the walk. The countryside was quiet around him, punctuated only by birdsong and the distant cloying sound of children’s laughter. A peaceful evening, then, and not one altogether terrible to spend in the town.

The closer he got, the more the sounds of civilisation assaulted him. Converted motorbikes some daring wizarding youth had pilfered from the Muggle town beyond their own, mothers calling their children, sellers hawking their wares, all sounds that brought a smile to his lips.

The simple things he’d missed all those years, which he’d promised himself not to take for granted anymore.

Not after the war.

And though it was early in the day, he rationalised that he could spend a little bit of time in the pub to satisfy Madam Marietta’s insistence that he at least try. Then, after having his fill of the smoky air and stilted small talk he’d inevitably make with the barkeep, he could leave and perhaps stroll through the straggling stands at the market.

Never large, the Saturday market was his favourite. If he arrived early enough on most weekends, he could trade some of the rosemary that grew just beyond the shadows of the house for fresh fruit from Mr Baudelaire’s orchard. Even when he didn’t arrive early, though, he was certain to find something for his meager kitchen if he looked hard enough.

Fiddle music played a lively tune over the low din of voices echoing off the buildings, and Neville found himself drawn into the crowd and away from the pub. 

He’d never been one for drinking much anyway.

He stopped at a table boasting the leftover, less sightly loaves of bread from a local bakery, and he selected two of the smaller offerings, tipping a couple galleons towards the woman. Continuing on, he carefully surveyed the various tents until several little girls darted out in front of him, giggling and halting his progress.

“You can’t be serious, Father. It’s _ghastly_.” 

Neville knew that voice.

As though he was on autopilot, he turned towards the sound. He peered through the throngs of people, looking for familiar sharp cheekbones and even sharper tongue, but nothing appeared. 

Perhaps he’d imagined it.

Despite himself, disappointment settled a lead weight in his belly, and he turned back from whence he came, intent on finding that drink after all, when the voice spoke again from just in front of him.

“Longbottom?” 

And there she was.

Her hair was cut in the same blunt French bob it’d been at Hogwarts, but her face held none of the pinched ire she’d worn like a shield in their youth. A simple—though expensive, if Neville’s uninformed guess on fabric choices was correct—sundress fell to her midthigh in a brilliant shade of spring green that brought out the green flecks he knew dotted her hazel eyes.

He’d missed those eyes.

The thoughts assaulted him in the space of a breath, but he knew she recognised the pause when he affixed a forced smile to his face. “Pansy. I didn’t know—I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Her gaze shuttered, and Neville immediately missed the warmth and openness of her expression. “I didn’t expect to be here. Father impressed upon me the importance of ‘earning one’s keep’. Apparently I didn’t live up to the expectation, and I’ve been unceremoniously disowned. You’ll have heard my argument with him just before his Portkey departed, I assume?” With a sigh of exasperation, she offered him a once-over while people pushed past them. “Why are you here?”

Neville ran a nervous hand through his hair. “Found a little cottage to fix up outside of town. It has a garden that needs attention. I’ve struck a bargain with the woman who owns it: she’s allowing me to stay there if I tame the garden and update the home.”

Nose wrinkling, Pansy nodded once. “Sounds like something a Gryffindor would do.” 

The statement was meant to be a jab, but Neville carefully side-stepped it. “And I assume you’ve no place to go here?”

“I haven’t.” Her tone was bitter, and though she’d never openly admit to it, Neville could see her wounded pride beneath her defiant stare. 

It took him all of a moment to abandon his plans for the evening—the decision not even a conscious one—and he seized the handle of the bag nearest to him. Without allowing her a chance to turn down his offer, he turned and pushed through the crowd. “Well, come on, then. I’ve an open room.” 

* * *

“How in Merlin’s name is this even classified as a home?” Pansy stood just beyond the gates, staring up at the old brick facade with a mixture of terror and disgust warping her pretty features.

Neville peered over his shoulder, studying the home with fresh eyes. Some of the brick was in disrepair, and many of the windows no longer closed properly, but it really wasn’t as bad as it could have been. He shrugged, watching her from the corner of his eye. “It’s not much, but it does a good enough job.”

“And you live here.” Pansy’s tone begged him to correct her, but when he simply nodded, she shifted uneasily. “And you said that a witch owns the property… and is begging you to fix it up?”

“Essentially. She’s a widow and was hoping to prepare the home for sale eventually, but she doesn’t have the time or the skills to fix it herself. Are you coming in or not?” he groused, the first bit of real irritation flaring in his belly. Mounting the steps, he marched through the front door with a purposeful stride towards the remaining bedroom. 

The floors were uneven there, and his steady pace faltered a bit when the floor creaked and a floorboard pitched beneath him. He threw his hands out to catch himself, and Pansy’s bag slipped from his hand, careened across the room, and landed on the bed with a puff of dust.

Muttering a curse to himself as shame coloured his cheeks, he waved his wand at the lingering dust and murmured a cleaning charm he’d heard his gran use countless times, then set about aiming proper cleaning charms at open surfaces. Finally, he turned, aiming an accusing eye at the floorboard as he reattached it firmly.

He was pleasantly surprised when, moments later, Pansy appeared in the doorway, bag in hand and no less worse for wear than she’d been when he first spotted her. 

“So, this is it then? The ‘room’ you had to offer.” She didn’t look impressed, but she also wasn’t running out the door without so much as a goodbye, so Neville took it as a win.

He shrugged again, a response he was growing increasingly aware of in her presence. “This is it.” He reached for her other bag and settled it alongside the first in the small closet next to the bed. “Loo is down the hall and to the right. The water doesn’t stay warm for long, but I’m sure you know the necessary charms to reheat it should you need to. I cook breakfast at six and begin work in the garden around seven.”

A sardonic laugh spilled from Pansy’s lips as she cocked an eyebrow at him. “I’ll be awake by ten at the earliest and will go into town to find work.” Her lips pulled into a sour frown on the final word.

Neville, though, couldn’t fight the cheeky grin that broke across his features. “You’ve got a job, Pansy. For as long as you’re staying here, you’ll be assisting with the renovations. I’ll owl Madam Marietta first thing in the morning; she’ll be overjoyed for the additional hands.”

All the colour drained from Pansy’s face as she stared at him. “Absolutely _not_ . There’s not a single thing in this world that could convince me to help you clean up this—this _hovel_.” 

“Madam Marietta pays more than any other employer in town because she knows how terribly this place has fallen into disrepair,” Neville stated, allowing his tone to chill. “It’s all she has left of her family, and I’m sure you recognise the importance of preserving lineage, right Parkinson?” 

She flinched at the bite on her surname, and her gaze shuttered once more as she rolled her shoulders. “Fine.” She chewed on her lip, and Neville could see all the sarcastic quips she wanted to throw at him, but she only tacked on. “But in the evenings, I’ll search for other boarding.”

He didn’t have the heart to tell her that no one in town would take her in as a known descendant of a Death Eater—no one in town had even wanted to house _him_ , and he’d fought for the light—but he tipped his head in acquiescence. “Deal.” 

* * *

Sometime in the middle of the night—far too soon after he finally drifted off—Neville jerked awake.

He’d been dreaming of her eyes. Those alluring hazel eyes had stared up at him as her perfect, pouty lips wrapped around his— 

Another piercing scream ripped through the air, and suddenly Neville was wide awake, wand in hand, and sprinting towards the sound that had awoken him in the bedroom on the opposite end of the hall. 

He burst through the door with a shouted, “ _Protego_ ,” aimed towards the bed, but skidded to a stop when he realised the worn mattress was empty and the frame lay in pieces on the floor. 

No sooner had he reeled towards the door to find Pansy was the witch walloping him over the head with the missing pillow. “Why are you protecting it, you arsehole? It’s the one that attacked _me!”_

Sleep still muddled his brain, but he lifted his hands against the blows. “Ouch! _Oi_ , okay! I’m sorry!” When she continued to smack him with the pillow, he snatched it from her hands. “What in _Merlin’s saggy tits_ is going on in here?” 

Pansy stood before him in satin shorts and matching camisole, her hair mussed from sleep as she sniffed at him. “There’s no need to be vulgar.” He lifted an incredulous brow at her, and she sighed, gesturing towards the bed. “I was sleeping. Something bit me.”

Neville blinked once. “Something _bit_ you.” 

Colour suffused Pansy’s cheeks and she looked away. “Yes, something bit me. I yelped, and it bit _harder,_ so I yelped again.” 

Neville stared between her and the bed. “That doesn’t explain why the bed is in tatters.”

Straightening her shoulders, Pansy looked him dead in the eye as though she were daring him to laugh. “I hexed the bed.”

“You hexed the—” At her glare, he nodded again. “Right, something bit you, so you hexed the bed to bits.” His lips twitched. “Did you at least get it?” Pansy raised the pillow, and he lifted his hands in supplication. “Never mind! Look, we’re both tired. I’ll repair the bed in the morning.”

Her mouth fell open in shock. “That’s all well and good seeing as I was attacked in your home, but where am I supposed to sleep tonight?”

Neville rubbed the back of his neck—another action he was becoming increasingly aware of—and gestured back towards his room. “The only other bed in the house is mine. It’s quite large—we can either share or I’ll sleep on the floor. You can decide.”

Indecision warred on Pansy’s face, and her eyes—such familiar eyes—flickered to his. Without responding, she turned and stalked down the hall, hair bouncing against her neck as she went.

Groaning, Neville scrubbed a hand over his face. This witch would be the death of him. 

He followed in her wake, attempting to calm the nerves that still rioted in his veins. By the time he made it to his doorway, his heart had calmed, but it ratcheted back into high gear when he paused on the threshold. 

Pansy had crawled into his bed, her hair fanning out across the pillow opposite the one he usually used. She laid, carefully reposed, on the far half, and, if he looked closely enough, he swore he could see her pulse fluttering in her neck.

Images flickered through his mind of the last time he’d seen her like that: relaxed and radiant, her hair had spilled over the pillow they’d conjured together in the Room of Requirement in those desperate, lazy last days before war had broken over Hogwarts.

Forcibly shaking the memories away, Neville approached the bed, reaching for his pillow.

“You can stay.” 

He froze, gaze shooting to hers staring up at him from behind the heavy lashes ringing her lids. The eye contact held him suspended in her presence, and he swallowed around his suddenly dry throat. “Are you sure? I don’t have to—”

“I’m sure,” she responded, conviction in her tone belying the uncertainty that flickered over her features before she rolled away from him. “Just get in the bed and go to sleep, Neville.”

His name on her tongue jolted him, and he moved mechanically, pulling the covers back and slipping beneath them.

The scant space between them may as well have been a chasm for the distance he could feel from her, but he turned out the lights with a whispered, “ _Nox_ ,” and tried in vain to drift back into a restful sleep.

* * *

Floating back to the surface of cognisance, Neville first became aware of the heady scent of plumeria surrounding him as he reached for his wand to silence his alarm.

Then, a solid body shifted in his arms, something that felt very much like hair brushed his nose, and his eyes shot open. 

There was a witch in his arms.

Not just any witch.

 _Pansy_.

The night before came back to him in sudden clarity, and his body seized, unable to move for the awareness coursing through him, and he was incredibly, _painfully_ aware of the burgeoning erection pressed against the delicate curve of her arse.

“I’m going to ask this one time,” her sleepy voice muttered, and he swore he could feel the anger roiling off her. “Was this intentional to get me into your bed?”

Pulling away, Neville carefully put space between himself and the angry—though really quite lovely in the soft morning light—witch. Swallowing thickly, he shook his head. “Absolutely not. I meant to be out of bed before you woke up, and I—”

She lifted a hand, stalling the inevitable ramble she’d become familiar with all those years ago. “It was an accident. Got it.” Almost as though she couldn’t help herself, her gaze roved over his torso, lingering on the cut of his hips above his shorts. A delicate blush stained her cheeks as she ripped her gaze away and pushed herself upright and off the opposite side of the bed. “I’m going to—” She faltered, clearing her throat absently. “I’m going to shower.”

“Right,” Neville responded, studying the way her blush stained the fair skin of her chest. “Shower. Breakfast will be ready by the time you’re out.”

A curt nod was her only response as she sashayed from the room, leaving Neville with longing he thought he’d buried and a hardon he was desperate to relieve.

“You can’t expect me to put my hands in that,” Pansy huffed, her eyes wide and scandalised. “You haven’t a clue what’s in there.”

A laugh rumbled in Neville’s throat. “As a matter of fact, I have. Mixed it myself. One part composted garden and kitchen waste, one part aerated soil, and one part cattle manure.” 

Neville hadn’t thought it possible, but Pansy’s face soured further. “Manure.” She tipped her nose towards the sky. “You’re joking.”

Shrugging, Neville tipped some of the mixture into the garden bed. “It helps not to think about it if you’re squeamish.”

“And you find joy in this? The common things?” she asked, crouching before the bucket with a sneer of disdain. 

Neville, for his part, didn’t loosen the laugh that played around his lips, instead schooling his features into serious contemplation. “I do. It’s relaxing. Rewarding. It feels good to see order come from the chaos. To create something from so little.” 

She didn’t look convinced, but she leaned forwards, tipping the bucket so the mixture splattered onto the ground between them. She ticked her gaze to his. “This would be much quicker with a wand.” 

That time, Neville allowed his laugh to bubble past his lips. “It would, but then you’d lose the satisfaction of work done well.” His demeanor sobered, and he reached into the bucket and took his own handful. “Besides, the plants will grow better if you tend to it yourself instead of trusting the magic to do it for you.”

Pansy didn’t answer, but she did tentatively sink her hands into the mixture and begin slowly, methodically, spreading it around the base of the plant nearest her. Her complexion only pales slightly at the smell, and Neville swelled with pride at her attempt. 

“Plants are fickle beings,” Neville continued, keeping a close eye on Pansy. Inappropriate warmth began to spread in his gut as she carefully tipped more towards the next plant. “They thrive on careful nurturing. The more you care for them, the better they’ll grow. They’re like people in that regard. Sometimes they just need some time.”

At some point, he’d stopped talking about plants, and the tension that rose to Pansy’s shoulders indicated that she’d followed him. “And what about plants that don’t want that sort of attention?”

Taking the hint, he backed off. “There are some plants, like cactuses, that are prickly when it comes being nurtured, both in appearance and the care they require. Cactuses, and other succulents, really, need a much finer hand. Too much attention and they’ll rot. Too little and they’ll shrivel up. It’s a delicate balance.”

“I think I was a cactus in another life,” Pansy muttered, blowing hair off her forehead with a heavy breath.

It was an opening Neville hadn’t expected, and he peered up at her from the opposite side of a dahlia they were to plant. “Even a cactus deserves care, Pans.” The endearment slipped out of him before he could stop himself, and he watched her stiffen.

After a moment, she busied her hands in the soil again, frantically smoothing soil in an even cover over the ground. She blinked rapidly but refused to meet his gaze. “Why dahlias?” she finally asked, steering the conversation towards safer ground.

He tipped his head at her before following her lead. “They’re easy to grow,” he answered, considering the question. “They thrive when they’re in the right environment, and they’re quite lovely. They also signify a positive life change, and I like to think this cottage offers that for me.” He forced himself to stop talking lest the oversharing spook her. 

She hummed her understanding and resumed her work, carefully lowering the seedling into its designated hole and covering it with soil. 

For the rest of the afternoon, they worked in silence together.

* * *

After a week, Neville still hadn’t fixed the bed, but Pansy hadn’t asked him to. 

Neither had they woken up in the others arms since the first night, though.

He carefully pulled back the sheet, easing himself in alongside where she reclined with a magazine propped before her. It was a domestic habit he hadn’t expected them to fall into, but he held it carefully in his hands, prepared for the moment it would shatter.

“Don’t look at me like that.” 

Neville glanced up at her, confusion bringing his brows into a deep vee. “Like what?”

Pansy lowered her book, fierce confrontation in her gaze daring him to contradict her. “Like I’m a particularly fussy plant that you’re afraid to damage.”

The accusation stung, but he felt the truth of it. Flattening his lips, he started, “Pansy, I—”

“Don’t.” She placed the magazine aside with more care than he expected from the ire roiling off her. “It’s fine. Just forget I said anything.”

Neville nodded mutely, trying to keep up with the change in conversation. “Do you want to talk about—”

With a glare, Pansy set her magazine on the floor and burrowed in the pillows with her back to him. “Goodnight, Neville.”

He blinked several times in the low lamplight, then shucked his shirt off and turned out the lights. “Goodnight, Pansy.”

She was just beyond his reach, cold and hard. A beautiful, unattainable woman he’d give anything to prove his worth to.

To prove himself _again_. 

It taunted him. Night after night, day after day, he remembered tiny details that he loved about her, qualities he thought he’d buried after the war. The way her laughter seemed to light her from within. How carefully she peeled her orange in the mornings to leave no residue of the skin behind. The biting, whip-sharp tenacity that had drawn him to her in the first place.

Each night, he slid into bed next to her and mourned the leagues between him that he couldn’t cross—the walls she kept carefully erected to keep him out, that she refused to let him scale. 

And for another night, he waited until her breath evened and her body relaxed into the covers to cast a wandless sticking charm on himself to prevent another wandering trip across the mattress to pull her into his arms again.

When he woke the next morning, her hand had wandered across the bed, curling her fingertips in his.

* * *

Two weeks passed and Neville didn’t broach the subject again. May was drawing to a close, June rapidly approaching, but the days were long and relaxing, and Neville felt himself settling into the routine the days afforded.

“I’ll be going in to London today,” Pansy announced, the screened door falling closed behind her with a clang. 

“Oh?” Neville turned to her, starting a bit when he realised Pansy was back in the pretty spring dress he’d first seen her in. “What are you doing there?”

She settled against the banister next to him, watching the sun rise over the fields. “Looking for a job.”

Neville bristled, ticking his face to hers. “You don’t need to go, Pans. You’re welcome to stay here for as long as—”

Her long fingers suddenly wrapped around his wrist. “I know. For as long as I need.” She sighed, tipping her face up to peer at him, but she didn’t remove her fingers from his pulse point. “It’s peaceful here, but—I need more. When the house is repaired, what will I do? There’s nothing for me here.”

Heart dropping, Neville made to pull away. “I understand.”

But Pansy held tight, turning into his space. “There’s no _jobs_ for me here, Neville. I—” She faltered, tongue flitting out to wet her lips, and Neville was done for. “There’s some _one_ for me. If he’ll have me.” 

Colour raced over her lovely décolletage, emboldening him, and he reached out with his free hand, running a fingertip over the line of it. “Pansy, if you don’t want—”

“I do,” she interrupted, hand tightening on his wrist. “Please.”

Neville’s resolve crumbled, and he met her halfway, plunging his hand into the soft mass of her hair as he crushed his lips to hers.

She was just as he remembered: soft in all the right places with angles that cut him to the quick. Her arms wound up around his neck immediately, and she arched into him, deepening the kiss with a desperation that swallowed Neville whole. 

The chasm he’d felt between them that first night closed to a sliver, and Pansy raked her nails down his back, earning a hiss of approval as she pulled his lip between her teeth.

He pulled away, lids heavy as she stared up at him, her chest heaving at the force of her breath. “Pansy, we shouldn’t—”

Slowly, she reached towards the hem of her dress and worked it over her head. Her hair fell free around her face in a halo backlit by the sunrise, and even if she hadn’t just undressed in front of him, Neville would have thought her the most beautiful witch he’d ever seen.

She stalked towards him, barefoot and in her knickers, across the worn wooden porch, heat in her eyes. When her chest bumped against his, she slid her hand down her chest, cupping him through the front of his pyjama bottoms. “I want you, Neville.” Setting a leisurely pace with her palm, she leaned into his stock-still frame and trailed her lips in taunting, sucking kisses up his neck to his ear. “Tell me to stop.”

A guttural moan left his throat when her teeth clamped around his earlobe, her breath sending goosebumps skittering over his flesh, and he was done for. 

In one smooth motion, he swept her into his arms and guided her legs firmly around his waist as he strode for the doorway. 

The trip down the hallway was short, but they managed to drag it out far longer than Neville could have imagined. With her fingers tugging at the strands of his hair, she drove him crazy, peppering kisses over every inch of his skin she could reach.

Finally, blessedly, they made it to the bedroom, and he pressed her fully against the door to slot his hips against her own, and he groaned against her at the delightful pressure when she arched into him once more. 

“Bed,” she panted, nails digging into the flesh of his shoulder, and he complied, backing towards the bed and lowering himself to the surface.

Immediately, she pushed him back, rising above him with dark heat in her eyes as she seated herself over his cock with only his pyjamas and her knickers separating them.

He allowed his hands to travel over her body—both familiar and foreign all at once—committing the planes of her curves to memory. “You are so beautiful.”

Another flush coloured her cheeks, and Pansy lifted off him repositioning herself between his knees on the soft mattress as she pulled his pants down his legs. 

Slowly, so painfully slowly he thought he might combust at the tension, she ran her fingers up the inside of his thigh until she cupped his base and flit her tongue out to trace around his head.

Fire seemed to ignite itself in his belly at the contact, and he tipped his head back as his breath left him in a muttered curse. And when she enveloped him, her soft tongue working the underside of his cock, he was sure he’d left this plane of existence for another.

With a shuddering breath, he pushed himself upright onto his elbows, watching in awe as she enveloped his cock over and over again. Familiar hazel eyes peered up at him, and his mouth dropped open as he reached down to cradle her jaw.

Following his cue, she pulled off of him and crawled up his body, he own breath heaving as she stared down at him and shimmed off her knickers.

Swallowing, he reached for her, cupping her bare breast reverently. “Pansy, we don’t have to—”

His reassurance cut off in a string of muttered expletives as she cupped him beneath her and slowly sank onto his length, her hands bracing her against his chest. 

When she was fully seated, a shiver worked over her body, and Pansy threw her head back, her mouth falling open as she rocked on his lap in lazy, rolling motions.

“Gods, you’re perfect,” he whispered, his hands trailing over her thighs to rest on the dips of her hips, though he made no move to control her pace. 

Incrementally, she increased her pace, encouraging his hips to snap up into her as she undulated overtop him. She was beautiful and powerful, taking what she wanted from him without apology.

Whispered praises spilled from his lips as warmth coiled low in his belly in time with Pansy’s increasingly erratic rhythm. As she pushed herself towards the precipice, she reached down, tugging his fingertips from her hips to twin through his own, and she shifted, pressing his hands above his head and grinding herself against him.

Her walls quivered around him as her lips met his and he plunged his tongue into her mouth, kissing her hungrily as she came with a breathy sigh overtop him and he followed shortly after, filling her with a groan. 

In the blissful aftermath, Neville kissed her lazily, his tongue trailing over hers and hands sliding down her arms to wrap around her delicate frame.

Pansy pulled away after several moments of silent basking, and he slid free of her, both of them hissing at the loss.

She quickly charmed away the evidence of their coupling and summoned her discarded dress, pulling it on overtop fresh knickers and pairing it with a pair of plain white sandals.

A thousand questions reverberated through Neville’s mind—what was that? What were they? Why now?—but he followed her lead in not addressing the subject. 

Finally dressed, she stared down at him with a soft smile playing around her lips even as her expression remained carefully guarded. 

“I’ll be back tonight,” she murmured, pressing her lips against the corner of his mouth in a hasty kiss, and then she was gone, the distant sound of the screen door falling shut punctuating her departure.

With a dopey smile on his lips, Neville reclined on the bed, basking in the glow of their shared morning before he got around to their tasks for the day.

* * *

Pansy returned to the house that evening, her shoulders curled in on themselves and announcing her failure before she said anything.

“Any luck?” Neville asked, slowing the creaking rocking chair to a stop.

Pansy lifted her shoulder in a shrug by way of response and slowly climbed the steps. “Not a thing. I’ll try again next week.”

Neville pushed himself out of the chair and crossed the porch, taking the witch’s elbows in his. “You’ll find something. I just know it.” 

Her stance stiffened, and she stepped back out of his grasp. “Right. Sorry to leave you all alone today.”

She turned towards the door, crossing the porch in several light steps that belied the frustration that hung about her like a shroud. Even her brightly-coloured spring dress seemed muted in wake of her exasperation. 

Frowning, Neville followed her towards the bedroom. “It’s alright. Pansy, can we—” He paused, running a hand through his hair and eyeing the still unmade bed from their morning. “Can we talk about this morning?” 

Pansy kept her back to him as she shrugged her bag off her shoulder and carefully arranged it atop her partially unpacked bags. “What’s there to talk about?”

Brows drawing together, Neville tried again. “I just think we ought to talk about it. What are we—”

“Does it need to be defined?” she challenged, her eyes ticking away from his. “Can’t we just… let it be?”

Once more, images of her laid out laughing beside him on conjured pillows flit before his gaze, and he wet his lips. Her gaze followed the line of his tongue, and he would have groaned if not for the stranglehold he had on his willpower at the moment. “You know why I can’t just let it be, Pans.”

A hundred different emotions crossed her face before she tossed her magazine to the floor and turned on her side as she waved the lights off. “The past was a long time ago, Neville. It doesn’t bear any weight on what we do now.”

But it did. Neville felt the truth of it as deeply as he felt the magic inextricably tied to his soul, and he opened his mouth several times before he landed on, “I loved you then.”

She froze. Back to him, he could see the desire to flee seize her, and he carefully approached her. When she didn’t run, he carefully cupped her elbows and turned her to face him. “Why did you leave?”

Biting her lip, her gaze darted around the room without landing on him. “I can’t do this. I can’t—” She swore under her breath, a singular tear leaking from the corner of her eye. “I’m not ready.”

Neville nodded, cursing himself for giving in to his baser desires that morning, but he pulled her into him and smoothed a hand over her hair. “There’s no rush, Pans. I’m here. Whenever you need me or want me. I’m here.”

She clung to him for several moments in the silence of the room, but she finally pulled away, eyes glassy with tears she refused to shed, and nodded once. “I think sleep would do us both good.” 

The finality of her tone brooked no room for argument, and he nodded, releasing her. On trembling legs, she made her way to her side of the mattress and retrieved her pyjamas. When she disappeared down the hall to change, Neville swore to himself.

A lead weight rested in his stomach, and he fought the urge to run after her to make sure she didn’t leave. After being so careful, he’d mucked it up.

He waited for several tense moments, carefully listening for the latch to the bathroom releasing, and when he finally heard her steps back towards the bedroom, he slipped out of his clothes and into the bed.

Pansy rounded the bed without looking at him and climbed in, careful not to disturb him as she nestled into the covers.

With a flick of her wrist, the lights winked out and the bedroom settled in to darkness, but Neville didn’t sleep a wink as he listened to her quiet breathing through the night.

* * *

Slowly, the house and the garden came together, and Pansy and Neville continued to skirt around each other. 

Neither of them mentioned their lazy Saturday morning together.

It was an uneasy truce, coloured by the past that neither of them acknowledged, and when it all came to a head again, Neville wished he’d not let it go so far. 

He was cooking dinner, his back to the doorway, when Pansy walked in. 

“I’ve found a job,” she announced, unceremoniously dropping her bag on the countertop.

Tension immediately coiled in his belly, but he turned, schooling his features into careful interest. “Oh?”

She nodded, reaching for one of the slices of toast he’d prepared for her. “In London. Undersecretary to one of the department heads. Not as glamorous as I’d hoped, but it’s a job that will get me out of this blasted cottage.”

The air felt like it’d been knocked out of Neville. _This blasted cottage_. So that’s all this was to her. He gave her a perfunctory nod and resumed cooking. “That’s wonderful news, then. I’m happy for you.”

And it was true. Despite the hurt her words levied against her and the desperate desire he had to rekindle what they’d lost, he was happy for her. He’d never wanted anything but happiness for her, and after his relief that she’d survived the war had faded with her staunch refusal to acknowledge her presence, he’d tried to put her from his mind.

And he had succeeded until Madam Marietta had convinced him to go to the pub for a drink.

“That’s it?” 

Pansy’s tone was shot through with disbelief, and he turned to her. For the first time in weeks, she openly stared at him, her shoulders drooping and face slack.

Dread coiled in his stomach, and he set his spatula aside. “What do you mean?”

Quickly, Pansy’s disbelief morphed into hurt. “All these weeks, I’ve stayed. You didn’t push me out of your bed even though I pushed you away. You didn’t push me for more. You just—you let me stay.” Her voice broke on the last word.

“Pansy, I—”

She lifted her face to him, and his stomach dropped at the tears pooling in her eyes. “What am I to you, Neville?”

His step faltered, and his jaw popped open. What was she to him? 

A thousand responses whirred through his mind. Everything. The only woman he’d ever wanted. Absolutely fucking infuriating. 

But she didn’t allow him time to respond. 

Pansy whirled, her face set as she marched down the hallway towards the bedroom. Before she even crossed the threshold, her bags had packed themselves and flew into her hands. She paused for only a moment, ticking her chin upward before she faced him again. “Thank you for your hospitality.” 

Her tone held the cool detachment that he knew well, and his mind raced to try to find the words to stop her, but she brushed past him, heading towards the door. Sense caught up with him when she pushed the door open, and he ran after her.

“Pansy!” he shouted as he burst onto the front porch and down the steps. She was nearly to the gate when he caught her wrist and turned her towards himself. “Pansy, please look at me. Where are you going?”

She sniffled once, blinking glassy eyes as she stared somewhere over his shoulder. “I’m leaving, Neville.” Her resolve cracked minutely when she looked at him and a singular tear slid free. “I can’t be the witch you need me to be.”

Desperation spurred him on, and he cupped her jaw, rubbing his fingers over the smooth skin. “Pans, I don’t want you to be anyone but yourself. All these months, I’ve been trying to respect your boundaries. I wanted you to _heal_.” 

One hand dropped her luggage and slid up his arm, clasping the hand against her face. For just a moment, her eyes fluttered shut and she leaned into his touch, an absent smile flitting over her features, but it was gone in the next heartbeat. “You’ve always deserved more than I can give you. I’m too prickly, too hard to manage.” Her smile was sad as she stepped out of his grasp and beyond the gate. “You deserve more than a cactus.” 

Though he sprang forward, her name on his lips, Pansy Disapparated, leaving Neville alone in the shadow of the cottage.

* * *

At first, he was angry.

At both himself and at Pansy. He stayed up until all hours of the night, wracking his brain for the moment it had all gone to shite, but nothing jumped out at him.

Perhaps it was as she said. She truly thought he deserved better.

Given the opportunity, Neville would have spent his life trying to prove to her that she was all he’d ever wanted. That they made each other better because they challenged each other. 

Then, he grieved her absence. The cottage was far too quiet without her snark, and he couldn’t bear to sleep in the bed they shared, so he finally repaired the original bed she’d used.

Each day passed in a blur, and even Madam Marietta tried to convince him to try again with another witch.

But Neville didn’t want another witch.

In her wake, he tended the garden. He planted the remaining dahlia seeds and watched them sprout as July crested over Yorkshire. The colours of the garden soothed his soul incrementally, but a large part of it still felt unsettled in Pansy’s absence.

And despite the side of the bed she’d slept on remaining cold for months on end, he found that he still reached for her upon waking every morning.

* * *

He hadn’t seen Pansy in months. 

In her absence, he’d completed the remaining repairs that the cottage had needed as if on autopilot. The brick fit together seamlessly, the windows shined, and the garden bloomed beautifully. 

It looked like a house, but Neville couldn’t think of it as a home anymore. Not without Pansy there. 

“It looks good.” 

Jaw falling slack, he turned, seeking out the voice that he knew better than his own.

Pansy leaned against the front gate, a deep sapphire sundress falling to her calves. Her dainty, painted toes peaked out from the open toes of her sandals, and she’d allowed her hair to grow out.

She’d never looked more beautiful. 

Cocking her head to the side, she studied the cottage. “You’ve finished the work.”

His jaw worked as he searched for a response. Finally, he landed on, “I needed the distraction. Someone I cared about left me, and I couldn't stand to be idle.” 

The gate clicked open as she stepped through, contrition in the lines of her features when she looked at him. “I’ve heard a rumor that the witch regretted it as soon as she left but couldn’t bring herself to come back.”

The admission startled him. “Oh?”

Pansy nodded, running her hands over the blooms beside her. “The Parkinson family is, if nothing else, quite prideful.” 

Neville’s heart raced in his ears, and he waited for her to continue.

“I took the job in London,” she said, then added, “though I think you’d be more pleased to hear that I hated it. Kept thinking about how much I preferred digging my hands into soil than jotting notes for some low-level bureaucratic drone. I missed the common things.” 

A smile broke across Neville’s face, but he dipped his head. “I didn’t want you to be unhappy.”

She nodded. “I know. Felt like karmic retribution, though.” Chewing on her lip, she continued, “It felt poetic, I think, to be the hand that dealt my own suffering after everything I put everyone through. After what I put _you_ through.” Another pause. “Did you know that dahlias can also signify commitment?” 

Hope made him lighter, and he finally stepped towards her, minimizing the distance between them. “Why did you come back, Pans?” 

A singular moment passed between them, Neville’s breath held while she straightened her shoulders. “I missed you.” She blinked several times, peering out over the garden. “I don’t want to be a cactus anymore. Not if it means ruining this.” She gestured indiscriminately between them.

“I think we can talk about the past later,” Neville interrupted, desperate to remove some of the discomfort from her expression. Summoning courage he’d long buried, Neville stepped into her, taking her hand not running over the flowers in his. When she didn’t pull away, he prompted, “Pansy, I need you to be incredibly clear with me.”

Finally, she tipped her face up at him, a pleased smirk on her face as she threaded her fingers into the hair at the base of his skull and pulled him into a searing kiss that felt like home.

When she pulled away, her whispered words ghosted over his skin, a brilliant smile that matched his own pulling at her lips. “I missed you, and if you’re amenable to it, I think I’d like to be a dahlia now.” 


End file.
